Twisted Treatises

A bit worn and ragged from stretches and hatha and writing, writing, always writing. Doing all these things until finally my brain went pop. Time to chill. For me, that means about a day. Yesterday, Iforced myself not to write a word and failed. I wrote one sentence anyway. And that's how someone knows they're a writer. Breaks are needed, and sometimes a full stop--when you need that and you can't do it, you'll know the craft is in your deep structures. If that isn't happening to you, maybe do something else. For me, it's always been that way. I filled a hundred notebooks on the street, all but three of which were stolen...strangely. Not sure why. I didn't meet a lot of readers out there. And there wasn't anything in any of them worth stealing, if the ones I have are to be believed. That words in there are shit, maybe good for cut-ups and fleshings into a whole new something, but that's it. Lovecraft called that commonplace writing.  I kind of fucked